


snapshots

by levlinwinlaer



Category: Portrait de la jeune fille en feu | Portrait of a Lady on Fire (2019)
Genre: F/F, overzealous descriptions of painting, quite frankly a coping mechanism, shockingly bad pacing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-04
Updated: 2020-11-04
Packaged: 2021-03-08 18:47:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,473
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27381409
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/levlinwinlaer/pseuds/levlinwinlaer
Summary: Marianne is very famous and Héloïse knows this because she goes home and types Marianne’s name into her machine and she is the fourth result for all the Mariannes in the country. She is in the Louvre. Her paintings, not her. Ocean tide. In the ‘Contemporary’ section.
Relationships: Héloïse/Marianne (Portrait of a Lady on Fire)
Comments: 24
Kudos: 125





	snapshots

**Author's Note:**

> for she's a jolly good fellow ra ra sorry americans

Forty-two days after they have sex for the first time Héloïse blows through Marianne’s door with enough force to put a dent in the wall.

“Jesus,” Marianne says, from where she is curled up on the couch in the living room. Her socks have little green bamboo sticks on them, and her ankles are bare beneath the blanket that she had stolen from Héloïse’s apartment. She is watching a documentary about giraffes.

Héloïse is livid. She comes to a stop in front of Marianne, blocking her view of the television.

“Get out of the way, they’re about to fight,” Marianne says, trying to push her aside with one socked foot. Héloïse folds her arms and holds her ground. And finally she is looked at.

Something changes in Marianne’s eyes. She reaches out to touch Héloïse’s hand but misses. Because Héloïse pulls her hand away.

“What’s wrong?”

Marianne. Who upon leaving the cinema at three in the morning had spotted Héloïse smoking, alone. Who had asked her to dinner. And then asked her up for a nightcap. And then asked her to stay. Who had kissed her and read her fragments from Sappho and sworn at her mother. Who had very nearly told Héloïse she loved her.

Who is not, after all, a film student.

Marianne is sitting very very upright on the couch. Her arms seem as if they should be crossed but they aren’t. Her wrists are facing up. “I paint,” she says, with a slight shrug. “Sometimes. You know that.”

“For a living,” Héloïse says.

“For a living,” Marianne confirms.

Marianne is very famous and Héloïse knows this because she goes home and types Marianne’s name into her machine and she is the fourth result for all the Mariannes in the country. She is in the Louvre. Her paintings, not her. _Ocean tide._ In the ‘Contemporary’ section.

She knocks on the door of Marianne’s house and after a long moment of waiting hears the patter of rapid footsteps, and then the sound of the door unlocking.

“You are very famous,” Héloïse says accusingly.

Marianne’s eyes go wide, then droop a little. She is clutching onto the door as if she will fall otherwise. “Fame is a relative thing,” she says.

“Your painting of the beach woman is in the Louvre.”

“I liked that one.”

“There are multiple.”

“I like the one of you best.”

Héloïse stares.

“I do wish you wouldn’t look at me like that,” Marianne says. The door opens wider. “I have tea-?”

“I would rather smoke.”

“Fair enough.” Marianne pads in after her. “May I take your coat?”

Héloïse deposits it on the floor just to spite her.

“Okay. That’s reasonable.”

“You told me you were a struggling artist,” Héloïse says, spinning to face her.

“I _am_ a struggling artist. Every day I struggle.”

“I posed for you.” She doesn’t mean it to come out quite so raw but her voice slips a little higher in her throat halfway through.

Something shifts in Marianne’s demeanour. She is still holding Héloïse’s coat, very close to her chest. “You posed for me because you thought I needed it?”

Héloïse is already shaking her head. “No. I wanted to.”

“Then why does it change things?”

No answer.

“Héloïse,” she asks. One hand starts to bridge the gap.

“Don’t touch me,” Héloïse snaps. “If you do I’ll forgive you and I don’t want that.”

“Okay,” Marianne says, her gaze soft and imploring.

“Don’t look at me either.”

Obediently Marianne turns around.

“I was so angry with you on the drive over,” Héloïse informs Marianne’s back. Her lovely back. Hair tied up in a messy bun. A tiny green paint stain on the back of her neck. _God_ , Héloïse had been an idiot. Who was that good at painting? What kind of student had a _studio_?

“You should be angry with me,” Marianne agrees.

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“You told me you hated contemporary art.”

“You could have still said something then.”

“But I didn’t think it would’ve been the same.” The flex of her shoulder muscle. Sore again, probably. “You hated mine. You looked at it and scoffed. I wanted you to do it again.”

“And you don’t think I would have if I’d known?”

“No.”

Maybe she is right. Maybe Héloïse would have been nice. Héloïse is rarely nice.

“I hadn’t made anything good in months,” Marianne says, mildly. Her arms drop to her side; she rocks forward, up onto her toes, and back. “I tried different models. Fruit bowls. Change of scenery. Nothing.”

“Don’t say I changed anything.”

Marianne steals a look over her shoulder. “You want me to lie to you again?”

Héloïse stills. She has let the anger bubble over and now she has lost it. Fire embers coals. One thing to ask and then she should go.

“Is it finished?”

In the familiar attic-turned-studio the windows are open. Marianne doesn’t bother flicking the light on. Just goes to the big canvas propped up on its easel and pulls the sheet off without ceremony.

And there she is.

Framed by the warm-gold thick lines of Marianne’s thighs, hands the link between them. Face upturned. Shoulders bare. Almost-smiling, the smudge of bottom lip caught between her teeth. Hair down. Marianne has used the sponge to do it. Finished. Unsigned.

Fourteen hours’ worth of sitting. Fourteen hours she had sat cross-legged between Marianne’s open thighs, looking up at her. Watching her face morph and crease as she chewed on the stem of a sucked-off lollipop. Paint smearing along Héloïse’s cheek when she reached down and held her in place. _Yes, good. No, stop. Don’t distract me._ After that the paint in her hair drying in thick globs of blue. Couldn’t get it out for days. Frozen by the Alsatian snow crunched underfoot. Showering later Marianne’s grin pressed into the side of Héloïse’s neck. _Thank you_ she had said running her soapy cold hands through Héloïse’s wet hair. _You smell like turpentine_ Héloïse had responded and kissed her anyway.

Héloïse is probably going to cry, which is embarrassing because it means Marianne will feel sorry for her. And that is a horrible prospect.

“I _am_ a film student,” says Marianne, unhelpfully. “If that helps.”

“It doesn’t.”

“Okay.”

“Don’t say anything else.”

Marianne mimes locking her mouth and tossing away the key. It is a monumentally stupid thing to do. What is she, twelve? Héloïse is now officially crying and it is embarrassing but less so because Marianne makes a concerned squawking sound and comes closer, hands fluttering.

 _Sorry_ , she mouths. Still not talking. Idiot. _Sorry, I’m sorry._

Héloïse lets out an ugly undignified snort and wipes her nose with the back of her hand. “You can talk now.”

“I’m sorry,” Marianne says, very sincerely. “I ought to have told you. I just thought you might think less of me if you’d known.”

“That doesn’t make any sense.”

“I _know_. I dug myself into it. Do you want a tissue?”

Héloïse shakes her head, stiffly.

“Okay. Is there anything I can do?”

Another shake of her head.

“Okay.” Marianne’s hands flap a little, uselessly. Her eyes are enormous pools of sorry. Héloïse wishes she was harder to forgive.

“I’m going to go,” she declares.

“That’s- yes. Whatever you want. Anything.”

Héloïse goes outside and sits in her little car and thinks.

Okay.

It had been a little too good to be true. Marianne with her painter’s hands and quick teasing smile. _Do you have a lighter?_ Yes. Here. Snapping back the little wheel the flame juddering hissing to life. Palm cupped around the cigarette. When they pulled apart Héloïse was itching for it already. Three in the morning frigid almost-snowing so she didn’t look away. Held the stare until Marianne’s mouth ticked up and she pulled the cigarette from her mouth and said, mouth full of smoke, _What’d you see?_ Héloïse in half a uniform of course with a coat over the top. Les quatre cents coups. _New Wave, hm?_ What are you, a film student? Then a laugh, and Héloïse was done for. _Yes. How’d you know?_

Ten minutes and Marianne shivered, hands stuffed in her overcoat pockets. _Christ, it’s cold_. Her darting gaze. _Is your shift over?_ And Héloïse’s reply. Are you hungry?

Tiny restaurant slow and sleepy no one in the mood for arguing. Not at this hour. Black night out the window. Butter-bread grilled to a lazy crunch. Ham. Warm tang of melted cheese. Marianne’s ankle bumping Héloïse’s under the table. Talking about films. Poetry. Her brother in the city. She had noticed Héloïse tapping her fingers, jonesing for a cigarette. _I have something a little better back at my place. If you want._

Puffs of smoke curling up round her head. Dragon’s breath filling Héloïse’s mouth when they kissed.

Her eyes. When Héloïse was half-naked trying to find the zipper of her dress. Her eyes. Yes. _Do you want to pose for me?_ And Héloïse had said yes, madly, wanting, kissing anywhere she could reach. Yes, please. Yes. Show me your raw pink inside. I want you. I want you to. Too.

Marianne opens the door already breathless, eyes searching Héloïse’s face. Immediately Héloïse brushes past her and marches toward the kitchen.

“You’re not forgiven yet,” she informs her, tossing her coat over the couch on the way. “And I’m hungry.”

Pause. A soft sound of amused relief, then the refrigerator door opening. “Do you want a sandwich?”

“Croque-monsieur?”

Marianne smiles, sweet and slow, her head ducked down over the bread. “Yes.”

“I don’t know why I never thought to look you up,” Héloïse says, later. They sit facing each other on the couch. Not touching. Not yet.

Marianne does her blink of self-reproach. “You trusted me too much, maybe. How did you find out?”

“At the museum.” The clerk’s cheerful smile. ‘Not coming today? Does she have an exhibition on?’

She winces. Blink blink. Reproach. “I’m sorry.”

“While you were in Paris-?”

The weekend trip. Giddy after she got back kissing Héloïse up against the wall hands freezing cold against her bare thighs.

“What I told you. A friend’s show.”

“And when you said small exhibitions-?”

Marianne flushes and picks miserably at a loose thread of Héloïse’s blanket. “They were small. Technically.”

“At the Louvre.”

“These things are so petty.”

They are. Héloïse is rubbing it in a little maybe. Marianne is still the same, hunched over looking a bit like a sad little rat in the rain. Acclaimed or not. What would it matter where her paintings are as long as they are somewhere?

Héloïse will be magnanimous. Just this once. With one hand she reaches out and finds her soft heartbeat calf, the hair fine and dark beneath her fingers. Marianne stills.

Forgiven.

“You can take it,” Marianne offers. “If you want.”

They are side-by-side in the studio. Not quite holding hands but almost.

“No,” Héloïse says.

“Do you want it exhibited?”

“Yes. If you want that.”

“Do you want to sell it?”

Héloïse considers it. “No.”

“Okay.” Marianne’s pinky nudges Héloïse’s. “That’s that, then.”

Héloïse unlocks the main office and kicks the door open to let Marianne through. With a little _oof_ she deposits her illicit armful of snacks onto Héloïse’s desk. Half-melted chocolates, two croissants, those bright pink hard candies she likes, salt and vinegar crisps, colourful sour gummy worms already opened, the green strand of one hanging from Marianne’s mouth. Héloïse shuts the door and kisses her, gummy worm and all, open-mouthed to taste the granules of sour dissolving, a dirty joke. Marianne laughs when Héloïse bites off the green half-worm. Right into her mouth. Laughing, her breath warm and damp, sweet.

Héloïse plays the film on the big screen. No one else is around at six in the morning so she sits draped over Marianne’s lap, feet kicked up. Marianne reclines her chair all the way. Le Voyage dans la Lune Héloïse feeding her a little pink sugar-button fingers sticking to her bottom lip. Kissing her then. _Pay attention. This is a very important film in the-_ sliding fully into her lap straddling her open thighs. Deeper. Taste of salt sour sweet the rasp of her tongue.

 _What if someone walks in?_ Marianne asks and Héloïse hums, licks a little heart on her throat. They won’t. Lucky I own the place. _Security cameras?_ Own those too. _Exhibitionist._ Maybe.

New studio being cleared out in Héloïse’s apartment. Marianne bustling about settling things in different orders. _This over there. Yes._ Finding Héloïse’s old seashell collection, painstakingly labelled and ordered in a seven-year-old’s cramped hand. Smiling at her so fondly that Héloïse blushes and snaps and goes off to lurk in the kitchen.

England is not nearly as nice as Héloïse thought it would be. And Marianne refuses to not wear the binoculars so they look like tourists. And only Héloïse has remembered a jacket so they have to share it.

Half an hour after the downpour starts (again) they retire soggily to a pub. Moodily Héloïse nurses a pint and pokes at the dismal chips. This place is horrendous, damp enough that it seems to be raining _inside_. Truly England surpasses itself every day.

“We aren’t going here for the honeymoon,” Héloïse declares.

Even after a month Marianne still turns pink upon being reminded of it. “I agree,” she says cheerfully. “The museums are good, though. And the exhibition party was nice. What else are you thinking?”

“Thailand?”

“Mm. Italy?”

“I’ll hear you out.”

“Ooh, or Scotland.”

Héloïse rolls her eyes. “Siberia.”

“Possible.”

“Shh.”

Marianne lights up, peering out the window. “Oh, look, the rain’s stopped.”

Héloïse wakes in the middle of the night.

Bed empty. Bathroom maybe.

“Marianne?”

No response.

Summer now so no coat. Just keys. Warm night settling on her shoulders.

“Marianne?”

Wedding tomorrow. Where could she-?

Oh.

Héloïse parks in her usual spot. She shuts the car door, loud enough to let Marianne know she’s coming. Not that she needs it.

Leaning on the wall beside the exit, hands in her pockets. Cigarette between her lips. Hair shorter now, fluffier. Smile still the same.

“Hi,” she says.

“Hi,” Héloïse responds.

“Do you have a light?”

Héloïse blinks at her. Bemused. Excited. “Not on me.”

“Shame. Guess I’ll have to find it somewhere else.”

She winks. Then pulls the cigarette from her mouth and gestures at the sky, somewhat unnecessarily.

The fireworks say the rest.

“You’re such a hopeless romantic,” Héloïse tells her later, curled up in bed at the apartment. Marianne’s eyes are huge and sleepy. Content.

“I know.” She yawns. Blinks. Eyelids falling shut. Nearly asleep by the time Héloïse shifts closer, kisses the tip of her nose, and says, “Remember when you forgot to tell me about the Louvre?”

“Ghhgh,” Marianne groans, and rolls away, taking the blankets with her.

Héloïse retires, satisfied. Domestic bliss.


End file.
